Juke Box Hero
by OwlBee
Summary: The Winchester brothers are feeling the strain after a seemingly neverending string of bad luck. Can Sam overcome his crippling fear and Dean his misplaced guilt in order to reconnect, or will an unexpected hunt spell the end? Set in early Season 2.
1. Ready for the Rain

A/N: Hah! Hello, new obsession! I got into Supernatural (and the pretty, pretty boys, lets be honest here) back in September, when I needed something to occupy me after major surgery. It burrowed under my skin and will _not_ let go, so I thought I'd break out of my self-inflicted hiatus and do some damn writing. This is set in early Season 2, just after 'Simon Says', and blatantly disregards the beginning of 'No Exit'. Don't worry, its not a major deviation from the storyline. I just wanted to explore how the boys got from "LIEK OMG OUR LIVES SUCK" to being fairly normal again. Total self-indulgent casefic here, ladies and gents. I have a fairly indecent love of beating the crap out of my favourite characters, so expect some gore in later chapters. Also, I am painfully English, so please bear with me if my knowledge of Americanisms seems a little bit wonky. Maybe give me a gentle nudge in the right direction!

Oh God, how I wish I owned them. Here we go!

Oh, and also? Foreigner are awesome, and totally my official SPN-writing band. Just FYI. What? Use one of their songs as the title? Well, if you insist.

Juke Box Hero.

1861

Accokeek Creek; Virginia.

She wasn't going to make it. She'd die in a foetid marsh, miles from the plantation, and be left to rot amongst the plants that caught at her clothes and skin. She'd freeze, or fall, or be shot by Confederate soldiers, or...

Another low groan rolled unbidden from her throat as her swollen belly contracted in a star burst of fiery pain, and she stumbled, collapsing to her knees in stinking water. If this was Death, let him come, let it end, _let me rest, please, God, let it end_...

"Rosie!"

Hands gripped her face, dearly familiar as they threaded gently through her matted hair. Her husband, her beautiful, courageous man, was trembling as he lifted her sweating face to his. His lips touched her forehead, three-day stubble scratching the fevered skin, as he whispered a seemingly never-ending string of pleading words.

"Come on, come on, baby, please...please, don't give up now. Come on, Rosie, we're so close...gonna be free, new life, baby, _please_..."

She was paralysed, struck dumb by the pain in her body and the desperation on her husband's face. His eyes were huge, rolling in their sockets with the whites showing, just like the Mandeville's big bay gelding, _dumb creature_.She longed to comfort him, but her thoughts were like wraiths, aimless, always just out of reach. Instead, she let his name spill out of her slack mouth as another wave of pain hit.

"J...Joe..."

Seemingly encouraged, he smiled, white teeth bright in his dark face, and gripped harder.

"That's it baby, c'mon. We're gonna get outta here, you 'n me. Think of the baby, couple more weeks..."

His face was beginning to blur as dark spots flashed at the corners of her vision. The frigid water swirling around her thighs felt curiously warm, and she dipped her head to see that it had turned a dirty burgundy in the light from the moon. Her heart breaking, she let out a keening moan, and prayed to God that Joe wouldn't notice. Grabbing at his frayed collar, she pulled him roughly to her failing body, and pressed her lips to his. She gasped what she hoped would be her final words against his mouth, and watched his face screw up in horror with a detached wonder.

"Love...go now!"

He moaned, an awful, inhuman sound muffled by the crook of her neck as he nestled closer. Her wandering attention latched onto distant voices slicing through the freezing air, the shouts of faraway soldiers encroaching upon their huddled misery, and she pushed weakly at her husband's shuddering form.

"G..._go_!"

His only answer was to pull her closer and rest his head on top of hers. Through the haze that clouded her thoughts, she dimly realised he had given up, and groaned into his sodden collar. She had no more energy for tears or goodbyes, so she mouthed the words into the salty flesh of his throat, and prayed he would get the message. Breathing was suddenly an effort; each inhale being drawn into reluctant lungs felt like a full day's toil. She realised that this was it, there were only moments left if that, and the thought brought a strange sense of peace. Rosie drifted away with the desperate words of her husband lulling her down to the inky blackness of a mercifully quiet sleep.

"Stay awake, baby, stay awake. Stay awake, stay awake, stay..."

* * *

_2006._

Route 59, Outside St. Joseph; Nebraska.

"_...awake, and I wonder, where my life is goin',_

_Am I on a road leadin' nowhere, there's no way of knowin'..."_

It was surprising, Dean Winchester mused, just how loud his little brother's silent brooding could seem. Even as the music pounded from the Impala's speakers at ear-perforating decibels, Sam's down-turned mouth and slumped posture gained all of his big brother's wandering attention. Which, Dean reflected as he narrowly avoided shunting into the back of a ugly-ass station wagon driving far too slow up ahead, probably wasn't the ideal situation to find himself in on a jammed highway. Casually flipping off the incensed owner of the wagon, he ignored the Buick's horn blaring over the music and attempted to focus. The threat of another messy incident involving his baby becoming scrap metal seemed to work.

For all of three minutes.

_Goddamn it, Sammy..._

For someone who advocated 'talking it through' as adamantly as a cheap chat show host, Sam could damn well sulk when he wanted to. The impromptu side trip to the Roadhouse had made some uncomfortable truths evident, and, not for the first time, the enormity of the task ahead of them was hanging like a guillotine above the Winchesters' heads. Sam seemed to have taken the realisation especially hard. The kid was still reeling from the insight into the yellow-eyed demon's plans he'd gained from Andy's batshit brother, and Dean was having a hell of a time dragging him out from under the proverbial black cloud of his depression. Granted, he himself hadn't exactly been sunshine personified lately, but his own grief had the uncanny ability to recede into the back of his mind when faced with his brother's struggle. Glancing yet again at the silent figure sitting like an unhappy statue in the passenger seat, Dean rolled his eyes expansively, and came to a mature decision.

This called for...a chick flick moment. The realisation was not a happy one, and Dean found his face rearranging itself into a petulant frown without his say so. Mentally berating himself (_get it together, Winchester, Sammy needs you!_), he swung the Impala towards the hard shoulder and winced at the hissing crunch the car's wheels made as they came in contact with chunky gravel. The bumping motion jolted his little brother's gigantic frame, Sam's shaggy head bouncing off of the window with a satisfying _clunk_.

"What the hell, Dean?!"

_Ah, it lives_. Pathetically relieved to see his sibling's hazel eyes narrowing in his direction, Dean offered a somewhat lacklustre version of his usual shit-eating grin. Sam didn't look impressed, and looked away with a put-upon sigh. Dean extended an arm, curling his fingers into Sam's plaid overshirt. The material felt soft and over-worn, and he looked hard at a fraying hole just above his brother's elbow instead of his unhappy face.

"Sam," he began, already feeling uncomfortable. "Sam, c'mon, man."

Sam closed his eyes, his forehead wrinkled in exhaustion. Dean's grip tightened slightly, as much an involuntary gesture of concern as a way to keep his brother's attention. Sam's forearm was bowstring taut under Dean's fingers, belying the tension that was keeping them both on edge. When no response seemed forthcoming, Dean tried again, trying and failing to keep the frustration and fear out of his voice.

"You can't just ignore m-"

Sam looks back, his face flushed with sudden anger. "Dude, you're such a hypocrite!"

Momentarily stunned by the unexpected rage twisting Sam's features, Dean said nothing.

"You've been avoiding your crap for months, now you wanna project on me? Screw you, man."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, then Sam broke it. He looked back towards his new best friend, the window, and sighed heavily. "Sorry. Just...I don't want to talk about it right now, okay?" He gently extricated himself from Dean's clenched fingers. Clearing his throat in lieu of actually saying anything, Dean started the Impala, and moved away with a faintly embarrassed blush evident under his freckles.

"Let's just...get this over with," Sam offered. "Then we can go back to the Roadhouse. See if Ash can help us out."

Dean just grunted in reply. Conversation dwindled.

This was gonna be one long-ass trip.

It was interesting, Sam Winchester considered, just how obvious his supposedly bad-ass big brother could be when he was worried. For the three hours they had been driving, Dean had been constantly giving his brother tiny heart attacks every time he took his eyes off of the interstate to glance at Sam. Of course, Dean would never admit out loud that he was concerned (_unless, y'know, there's mind control involved_), but he was more transparent than the window Sam was currently leaning his aching forehead against. Every time Dean looked at him, he'd unconsciously let out a tiny breath, almost a sigh, that no-one but Sam would realise betrayed his worry. Dean Winchester was an open book to his little brother, just as Sam was sure he was to Dean. Their relationship had become somewhat symbiotic; each sibling's seemed mood firmly dependent on how the other was feeling.

Sam shifted uncomfortably under Dean's surreptitious scrutiny. Dean was famed for his overprotective nature, and, though strangely endearing, it got him into trouble. A lot. Sam's mind jumped back to the awkward scene at the Roadhouse just a few hours before, when Dean had bristled like an angry wolf as Ellen's curiosity got a little too close to Sam's well-being. His growling dismissal of the danger Sam's psychic powers could present had warmed the younger Winchester's heart even as it dropped a block of ice into the pit of his stomach. He had a horrifying idea rooted deeply in his brain, and had done ever since Max Miller. If his powers sent him darkside, if they made him hurt Dean...

...He had a horrible feeling Dean would let it happen.

Sam was yanked out of his dark reverie by the familiar crunch of the Impala's tires on a lumpy gravel road, and the ignoble crack of the side of his face against her window. Suspecting that Dean had gotten bored of his silent concern and had decided to take a more proactive approach, he rounded on his brother as the car came to a halt.

"What the hell, Dean?!"

He softened his glare a little as he noticed Dean's green eyes fall shut in barely restrained relief. However, his irritation rose again when Dean shot him a somewhat washed out variation of his normally devastating smile. If this was a stupid joke...

Sam was in the middle of turning back to his window-slouching position when he felt Dean's warm fingers entangle themselves in his worn shirt. Looking back in surprised incredulity, he noted that a faint blush had spread over his brother's nose, and that Dean's eyes were firmly fixed on Sam's apparently fascinating left elbow.

_Oh geez, please don't do what I think you're about to do..._

Dean's voice, rough and clearly unhappy, broke into his internal plea for mercy.

"Sam. Sam, c'mon, man."

And there it was. The chick flick moment Dean seemed mortified to inflict was approaching rapidly, and Sam found himself strangely reluctant to give up the disturbing slant his over-active mind had fixed upon. Closing his eyes with a frown (_you don't wanna know, Dean, please don't ask me_), he jumped a little as his brother's grip tightened. Dean's baffled frustration was obvious in the words he spoke next.

"You can't just ignore m-"

The rage that was so terrifyingly close to the surface erupted in the face of the older Winchester's blatant ignorance of his own point-blank refusal to acknowledge anything close to an issue, and Sam snapped.

"Dude, you're such a hypocrite!"

Disbelief rendered Dean oddly silent. Sam found that once he'd started, it was a little hard to stop, even as guilt niggled unpleasantly in the back of his brain.

"You've been avoiding your crap for months, now you wanna project on me? Screw you, man."

He looked into his big brother's widened eyes for a moment, completely unsure of how Dean would react. This was usually the cue for one of them to throw a painful right hook, shout a few home truths, and quietly reconcile with a muttered aside and a manly pat or two. Maybe even an "I love you, you dope" hidden within the comfortable routine of "Jerk" and "Bitch".

Not this time, apparently. Dean just continued to look oddly wounded, and Sam eventually looked away with a sigh, guilt burning irrationally hot in his chest.

"Sorry. Just...I don't want to talk about it right now, okay?"

He pulled his arm away, careful not to move too fast, as though Dean were a frightened animal, not quite fully predictable, and capable of lashing out. _Not too far from the truth._

Wincing as Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, he spoke up in an attempt to dispel the residual weirdness between them.

"Let's just...get this over with. Then we can go back to the Roadhouse. See if Ash can help us out."

Sam's heart sank even further as Dean only mumbled something intelligible in response. His voice trailed off.

This was gonna be a tough ride.

_"And I'm ready for the rain to fall,_

_Ready, ready for the rain..."_

A/N: There, that wasn't too bad, was it? You may be wondering why I used that particular song for the title. Read the lyrics. That's _exactly_ how I see Dean.

Next chapter will reveal where they're going, and why. I hope you enjoyed it!

Music for this chapter: Foreigner - Ready for the Rain.


	2. Crash and Burn

A/N – Chapter 2 GO!

2

A further three hours in the silent Impala saw Dean's nerves stretched and twanging at near-breaking point. Just outside Des Moines, he found the thick pall of tension to be a little too overbearing, and pulled in from the I-80 at a convenient Motel 6. Sam blinked and glanced up for the first time in hours, his tired eyes crinkling slightly above the tentative smile he threw his brother's way.

"We stoppin'?"

Dean nodded in response, rolling his shoulders with a barely-contained grunt of displeasure. To him, nothing was more awesome than burning up the miles for hours in his baby, but just lately he'd begun to be more aware of the toll the long hours behind the wheel took on him. It was almost as though his own body was begging him to _slow the fuck down_.

He snorted at his own self-indulgent train of thought (_hunters don't take it easy, Deano, you get outta shape, you die, simple as_) and lurched from the over-heated Chevy towards the front desk, shuddering a little at the contrast of the biting March wind. Hearing Sam do the same a metre or so behind him, Dean waited for a moment for the sasquatch to catch up, then strolled with an affected casual stride into the dingy motel reception. A single glance at the apathetic teen behind the counter put paid to any notion of flirting his way into a better room for the both of them; the boy, as well as belonging to a gender Dean wouldn't usually consider, was about three years under the legal age of consent. From the lethargic sag of the kid's eyelids, it seemed he was minding the desk for an absent Mom or Dad. Said observation became more obvious when, instead of politely asking whether they needed any assistance, the boy slumped further into his supporting hand and flicked the page of his _GQ_ with metrosexual abandon.

Giving a cursory glance around the room, Dean noted the stains on the walls, the threadbare carpets in a shade he could only describe as 'shit-green', the ancient, drooling hound giving him a curious stare from beside the battered desk, as if to question his choice of motel...

"Are you _sure_," the glazed, drooping eyes seemed to question, "...you wanna stay in this heap?"

Dean nodded, hopefully managing to convey through a series of complex eyebrow wiggles that money, even when obtained through credit card fraud, was a precious commodity, and that beggars certainly couldn't be choosers when it came to a sorely-needed bed for the night.

The fact that he was having an imaginary conversation with a silent dog wasn't lost on him, and Dean shook his head sharply, vowing to collapse on a mattress as soon as humanly possible. Ignoring Sam's incredulous eyebrows creeping towards the smoke-stained ceiling, he strode towards the counted and snapped his fingers under the kid's nose with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

~SPN~

Lester Evans was fifteen years old. There were two things in the world he gave a rat's ass about; boobs, and the means by which to gain access to said boobs. Hair-enhancing cosmetics were one such way, a bad-ass ride was another. Unfortunately, both were expensive, and required more cash than his $15-a-week allowance could stretch to. So, when his Mom had whined about having no-one to watch the front desk while she went into town to smarten up the bird's nest she called a hairstyle, Lester had offered a practical solution for a mere $10 an hour. He'd watch the desk and Sideshow Bob (their old smell-hound, named during a somewhat pathological Simpson's obsession when Lester'd been five) and his mother wouldn't have to worry while she knocked back a Chardonnay or five with 'the girls'.

So far, his day had been entirely uneventful, if Bob's toxic backside was to be ignored. However, as evening rolled around, the rumbling purr of a _bitchin_' muscle car broke into his magazine reading stupor. Brushing bleached hair out of his eyes, Lester looked up just in time to see a freakin' beautiful Chevy Impala swing casually into the motel parking lot. The exterior's black paint job glared against the weak evening sunlight as the driver-side door opened, and Lester rolled his eyes when a man taking shabby glamour to the extreme dragged himself out.

Another followed; the unkempt look was clearly in wherever they had come from. Cracked leather, shabby overshirts, scruffy jeans, work boots and pretty faces that just didn't fit; guys like these two spent _serious _time and money to look like complete douches. He snorted and looked back to his magazine as the welcome bell dinged.

Surreptitiously glancing at the two from under his black-streaked bangs, Lester grudgingly concluded that yeah, okay, they were totally rocking the utility chic. The tallest one's shaggy, dark hair fell into his subtly slanted eyes, prompting him to brush it away from his tanned face with a hand that was roughly the size of a small boat.

The shorter guy's sandy hair was cropped military-short, drawing attention to a pair of intense green eyes over a strong nose dusted with light freckles. A little intimidated, Lester lowered his gaze.

Seconds passed in relative silence. The clock ticked, his heart beat, Sideshow Bob slobbered. Then, a pair of fingers _snapped_ under his nose with no provocation. Preoccupied with trying to push his heart back into his chest from his mouth, Lester looked up into a seriously pissed-off face.

He gulped.

"Room, please."

Wincing at the shorter guy's gravelly rasp, he nodded, but couldn't seem to make a move. The way the man's eyes pinned him in place reminded him of the way a wolf might stare at a rabbit; one false twitch and he'd be minus his head.

Sideshow Bob chose that moment to thump his tail lazily against the side of the desk, and lurch unsteadily to his paws. Sniffing the air contentedly, the hound leaned his fat frame against the green-eyed jerk's legs and huffed. The change was instantaneous. Green-eyes broke into a grin that made him look like a dork, and leant down to the dog's level, scratching his neck and tugging at his long ears. Bob, needless to say, was delighted and rolled onto his back, drooling deliriously. Traitor.

Shaggy-hair, who had as yet been lurking in the background with an expression as severe as his friend's, stepped forward. Rolling his eyes and directly a rueful, if slightly melancholy smile towards Green-eyes (who was now full-on wrassling with Bob), Shaggy-hair extended one massive hand. Dumbly, Lester shook it, and the smile became a little brighter.

"Sam Greenwood," the giant offered placatingly. He flung one hand behind him, gesturing to his dog-seducing friend. "M'brother Dean. We'd like a room, please."

So-called Sam's tone was smooth, and Lester grinned back, tense intimidation and scorn suddenly erased.

"Sure. That's...that's a really awesome car..."

Green-eyes (_Dean_, Lester reminded himself) looked up from his position as supreme dog-tamer on the ground with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"You like her?"

Lester nodded eagerly. "Yeah, man. Impala, right? Must've cost a shit-load to get her in that kinda shape."

He knew he's said something right when the Dean guy's eyes lit up like a solar flare. "Just finished fixin' her up myself."

"No way!"

Dean's grin was completely infectious. It felt a little weird to be laughing and exchanging muscle car worship with a guy who'd looked as though he were about to commit GBH just a few minutes ago, but what could he say? The guy had charisma.

Apparently, their conversation wasn't as entertaining for the room's other occupants. Bob settled back onto the worn carpets with a sniff of canine disdain, and Sam made a similar noise before gently gripping his talkative brother's elbow. His expression was both fondly exasperated and painfully relieved, and Lester idly wondered just what it was that had caused the thinly-veiled tension between the two of them. It wasn't his business, he supposed as he accepted the credit card from Dean's hand, and tossed them the keys to the least crappy room. Still, as the shorter man casually winked at him and threw a wave over his shoulder as they left, he couldn't help but hope it was nothing too serious. He kinda liked those guys.

~SPN~

"Dude, I think that kid kinda liked you."

Dean rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, and poked Sam with a deceptively sharp elbow. "Shut the hell up. It was your firm, manly hands makin' him blush."

Delighted at the return of his big brother's snark mechanism, Sam let out a full-throated bray of incredulous laughter. "Sure, that's why he _ignored_ me to stare into your big, beautiful eyes." Running a hand through his bangs to they lay flat over his own eyes, he adopted an adoring tone and lisped "Wow, mister, your car is so _great_!"

There was a moment in which he thought Dean was actually going to tackle him, but then his brother seemed to let go of any residual tension with a snort. He clapped Sam on the back and grinned.

"What can I say, bro? No-one's immune to Dean Winchester and his baby. Not even angst-ridden teenage punks with awful hair. As you know personally."

Levelling two fingers at Sam's spluttering expression, he crowed, "Jealousy's an ugly thing, Sammy-boy!"

Sam could do nothing but grin back, momentarily blinded by the setting sun and his brother's welcome change of mood. He was brought back to Earth with a bump when Dean pushed open the door to their room. A mouldy stench assaulted his senses; the olfactory equivalent of being slapped in the face with a wet dog. Next to him, Dean sneezed. Sam couldn't help but agree with the sentiment.

As his eyes adjusted to the permeating gloom, he dully noticed that, while the room wasn't the worst they had ever experienced, it definitely ranked in the top five. The walls were painted a dingy grey-blue colour he associated unpleasantly with the recently deceased, with patches of discolouration like post-mortem staining where paintings had once hung. The beds were lumpy, the curtains were clogged with dust, and the carpets were gritty. The only saving grace was the inexplicable power shower in the (mercifully, clean) bathroom.

Sam exchanged an identical look with his brother, and prepared himself for the customary wrestling match for the privilege of being the first in the shower. However, as Sam tossed aside his duffel, Dean's eyes flicked away, and he flopped onto the bed closest to the door with a fake-sounding yawn.

"I'm bushed, bro. Think I'll hit the hay."

"...'Hit the hay'? It's 8 p.m.!" Though, to be fair to Dean, he was looking like crap. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days, and his face was paler than usual, washed out under his smattering of freckles. Sam was far too tired himself to contest his brother's altruism, so, with a mental shrug, he left Dean to it. Some time away from their mutual tension would be good for the both of them.

The water pounded into Sam's throbbing muscles with an intensity that danced a razor-thin line between pleasure and pain. He leaned his pounding head back against the cool tile with a muted groan, dismally replaying the events of the past few days in his overtaxed mind once again. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, the fear of going darkside was ever present, bubbling just under the surface and making Sam's life miserable. He couldn't explain it to Dean; his brother had been quietly freaking out since Dad had died, not that he'd ever admit it. Adding another worry to Dean's all-too extensive list might push him over the edge, and he needed his brother sharp.

Sharp enough to defend himself, if it came to that.

"_Right circumstances, everyone's capable of murder. Everyone."_

A harsh breath shuddered from his lungs as he twisted the faucet with enough force to bruise his palm, heart thumping in deference to his anxiety. Now that the shower had squealed to an unsteady halt, the faint sound of music was just discernable from the connecting room. Sam's mouth quirked in a fond grin; Dean had always fallen asleep better to soft noise. It was one of the things that gave him a sense of normality, though most people's lullabies didn't consist of pounding mullet rock. Wrapping a threadbare towel around his jutting hips (_I gotta eat more..._), Sam crept back into the filthy motel room to the sight of his big brother, fully clothed and splayed on top of the patterned sheets, booted feet dangling. He rolled his eyes, helpless tenderness forming a lump in his throat, and shook his sleeping sibling's arm gently.

"Dean. Wake up, man."

A sleepy groan tinged with irritation rolled from Dean's throat, but he didn't startle awake as he would have done had anyone other than Sam roused him. Instead he cracked one eye open, dismissed his little brother as an annoyance rather than a threat, and went back to sleep.

"_Dean. _At least take your boots off, c'mon. No, don't just go back to...jeez, _fine_."

Unable to tell whether Dean was exhausted or simply an ass, Sam went with both. One hand twisted in the rough fabric of the towel to keep it up (because he could bet that if it dropped, Dean would wake up, and he wouldn't take kindly to his younger brother's naked body dripping on him), he used the other to ease off Dean's boots and tug the cover over him. He left his brother's clothes where they were; it wasn't like either of them had never put the other to bed before (owing to the lifestyle, being too injured, tired or drunk to undress themselves was common), but the combination of asleep/naked/wet was twanging at Sam's sense of self preservation. Huffing a quiet laugh to himself, Sam reached over to turn off the radio, and paused.

"_...I lose control, I'll never learn,_

_Crash and burn..."_

The calm that taking care of his big brother had instilled in him vanished with the return of Sam's muted panic, like a wave of heat crashing through his body. He backed up, his own bed bumping gently into the back of his knees, and sat. The radio continued to softly emit its horrendously relatable message of what he prayed weren't things to come, and Sam buried his head in his trembling hands.

"_Crash and burn,_

_Can you feel it?_

_Crash and burn,_

_Crash and burn,_

_Crash and burn."_

A/N  - Ha, I suck so much. Not only did I spend _far_ too much time and effort on an OC that I doubt'll show up again, but I lied, and didn't explain what the freakin' case was. Again. Next chapter for sure. Stay tuned for delicious, gratuitous whumping!


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